The Division - Dark Winter
by KhakiSuperBunny
Summary: The Divison, a shadow agency created by the US Government to save what remains of our way of life after a worldwide epidemic kills most of the worlds population. Welcome to New York, where terrorism, paranoia, death and disease reign supreme. Follow a small team of Division agents as they try to maintain order in a now hostile and unforgiving world.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This Prologue is unashamedly stolen from the theatrical trailer for "The Division". I own nothing of the Tom Clancy franchise . This is Fan Fiction only. Enjoy.**

Prologue 

In 2001 a real world exercise tested the emergency response to a bio-terror attack on the continental United States; the operation was called Dark Winter. Within just a few days, the simulation spiralled out of control. The operation predicted a rapid breakdown in essential institutions, civil disorder and massive civilian casualties.

Dark Winter has revealed how vulnerable we've become; our lifestyle, our security, our safety, it depends on a delicate and unstable economy. We've created a system so complicated that we no longer understand how to control it; oil, power, shipping, transport – we live in a complex world, and the more complex it gets, the more fragile it becomes. The system is built on a global supply chain that gets things where they're needed, just in time. We've created a house of cards, if we remove just one, then everything falls apart. And what's fuelling this system?

Money.

Americans can spend $90 Billion in a single day of shopping. Last year 200 million people swarmed their local stores on November 23rd, we call that day, Black Friday.

Did you know a flu virus can survive on the surface of a banknote for up to 17 days?

One day there will be a pandemic. It could begin during the crush of Black Friday sales. A pathogen will jump from tainted banknotes to human skin, onto food, toys, children and loved ones. By the time patient zero feels the first sore throat. Millions of people will already be infected.

From this point, the break-down will happen fast.

Day 1. Hospitals will reach capacity, panic will strike.  
Day 2. Quarantine zones will be established, resources will be rationed, transport will go into lockdown.  
Day 3. International trade will stop, the oil will dry up, the stock market will collapse. Day 4. The power will fail, the shelves will be empty, the taps will run dry and once hunger and despair take hold, people will do anything for survival.  
By Day 5, everyone will be a potential threat.

In 2007 a new presidential directive was signed quietly into law, this maps out the government's response to a crisis, a plan to cope with the real Dark Winter. It is known as Executive Directive 51.

There are rumours of shadow agencies, sleeper cells, covert agents. But nothing can be confirmed.

Our complex world is prime for breakdown, and once the chaos strikes, there won't be resources to save us all.

The only question left is, what will it take, to save what remains?


	2. Chapter 1: Day 12 (Part I)

V-Day +12

Corner of 3rd Avenue and East 19 Street, New York, New York. January 7th 2021, V-Day +12 1322Hrs.

It had been twelve days since the President of the United States declared a national emergency, twelve days since the US populace knew, wholesale of their impending destruction due to a microbe, an organism smaller than the width of a human hair. That day would henceforth be known in human history as V-Day – the day the modern world fell.

"_They were undone, destroyed, after all of man's weapons and devices had failed, by the tiniest creatures that God in his wisdom put upon this earth." _The SBS veteran, Babel mused the famous closing narrative from H.G Wells' 'The War of the Worlds' as he stalked down the vehicle littered street. _"But this pandemic was not God, and 'they' were not Martians_" He thought _"It was another act of terrorism, yet another example of mans inhumanity to man - an atrocity to human kind"_

He crouched alongside the yellow cabs passenger side front wheel, parked diagonally across the street where it had come to a screeching halt, abandoned weeks previous, bringing his rifle to bear on top of the snow dusted, yellow hood to cover his partner, Tombs, who was working his way up behind him on the opposite side of the street.

* * *

He had moved to the States back in 2014, seven years ago, having been part of Her Majesties elite Special Boat Service since he was eighteen, a feat only possible for those especially gifted straight from recruitment. He had completed his service with a dishonourable discharge after refusing to obey an order from a superior officer and looked to America to provide him with a new start – a shame as after eighteen years of service he was likely to become a senior commander in the Royal Navy .

He hoped for some cushy security job, protecting some diplomat or A-list movie sensation. The US Government, ever watchful on their enemies as well as their allies, had a different role for him in mind.

It wasn't long before he was recruited into a shadow agency, known to him only as 'The Division', he was reliably informed by his handler that it was one of the most secret agencies in existence, and it's task wasn't to snoop or spy, but to maintain order and protect Americas interests when the world collapsed.

Babel, a sleeper cell in a shadow agency that only the very tip-top of the US command structure was aware of, had been activated on V-Day +2 – thirty four days after patient zero felt the first symptoms that would lead to his premature death.

* * *

Babel looked down his ACOG scope to look upon a familiar sight - nothing, save for the hundreds of abandoned cars attempting to escape New York before the bridges and tunnels were closed, piles of black trash bags filled with rotting rubbish from those left behind and a light coating of snow on every surface. It was also a bad omen. Even with things the way they are, there is always a few people braving the cold and the fear of infection to look for food. No people on the street meant trouble.

The gunfire he had heard minutes before had definitely come from this direction; he could still smell the cordite in the air hiding behind the smell of decomposing food.

Another big hint the gunfire came from the vicinity was the fact that, according to his smart map, NYPD Precinct 13 was just around the corner.

Police stations, hospitals, FEMA aid centres, National Guard posts had all been the target of violent and unpredictable attacks by those desperately looking for supplies in recent days.

He and Tombs arrived at an outdoor clinic too late the day before last to save three members of staff working to distribute First Aid and the latest round of vaccines to be delivered from the Centre for Disease Control – the world renowned CDC at the aid station, which had been targeted.

The stolen vaccines were now most likely on the Black market, sold for an astronomical price to the highest bidder. The duo wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

Tombs, his partner, he rendezvoused with on V-Day +3, as planned near the Rockefeller Centre, Tombs nearly putting a bullet through his cranium before he countered the correct call "Stars" to the snipers' "Stripes".

Since then, he had learned very little about Tombs, apart from him being a member of Chicago's SWAT team before being enlisted into the Division three years ago.

The mild mannered African American was soft spoken and even tempered. His only downside was that, Babel suspected he had an alcohol problem, or at least was a recovering alcoholic. Babel had caught him, several times, staring longingly at the rows of untouched alcohol when they went venturing into stores looking for food, water or to deal with "problems". It was only a suspicion however; he hadn't actually seen him even a sip at anything that wasn't bottled water.

But by God he had the gift when he wielded his sniper rifle.

"How's things looking on your side Tombs?" Spoke Babel, keeping his trained eye peering down the sights.

"All clear man, we got a couple of stray dogs a couple of blocks up but I don't think they'll be bothering us...you smell that?"

"Yeah, cordite, we must be getting close", Babel scanned the area; his left cheek twitched as he bought up his smart map from his Smart Tactical Optical Viewer, or STOV lens for short, and created an optical illusion in front of him of a 3D map of a seven block radius of his current position. "If our hunch is correct, and when isn't it?"

"I hear that" replied the sniper.

"We're literally around the corner from the police station", he twitched his cheek again and the map vanished, just leaving him with his Tactical HUD - this gives the wearer a distinct advantage in combat as it showed environmental conditions, target deployment, threat indicator as well as other useful information he might need. Each member of the Division was issued one, Tombs, across the street, had his open too.

"There's a building down the end of the street that'll give me a perfect view down East twentieth street in front of the precinct house, if you give me ten mikes to clear a route up I can give you effective cover fire" stated Tombs flatly, before closing down his map.

"Do it" Replied Babel, spoken from behind his thick, dark beard, flecks of silver betraying his age, and moved up cautiously to the corner of East Twentieth Street and peered round the buildings edge, down onto the police station. Above his head, the blood red graffiti read "Repent! The End is Nigh!"

* * *

Tombs was fortunate to find the window of the corner shop – a women's clothing store called 'Gramercy Project' smashed, attached his M53 Gas mask securely over his face – the area may not have been a confirmed hot risk in the dark zone but any occupants in the building were an unknown, wearing a mask was now standard practice when entering an uncleared building.

Tombs', vision now restricted, he swept through the window like a spectre into the void, his SR-25 now strapped to his back in favour of a silenced MP5/SD3, and he checked the darkened corners looking for an ambush, finding nothing but his warm breath misting in front of his face through the grille on the front of his mask.

After picking his way over the littered clothing that hadn't been stolen, investigated out the back of the store for a stair case. No joy, instead finding a one way security door in the corner of the staff room, he turned the handle to reveal a long dank corridor leading to apartments, at the end of the cavernous hall, a set of stairs leading up into the unknown.

"Jackpot" he whispered into his throat mic, "I've got stairs, going up, ETA to rooftop, seven mikes", he propped the door open with a heavy fire extinguisher to save having to find another route out and moved forward like liquid steel, the light on the end of his sub-machine gun spearing the dark.

His eyes darted left and right, his torch following, checking the dark spots for possible threats, it seemed this buildings only inhabitants now were the rats which scurried along against the dark green walls.

Though moving at pace he spotted something out of the corner of his eye which made him pause – a graffitied door. But it wasn't just another youth tagging his territory, or some Bible quote or racial slur; it was a short message, which Tombs presumed after reading the message was from a wife to her husband. The message read, in thin, careful white brush strokes, "Mike, taken kids to my Moms. Not safe here. We love you".

It was, in a sense, tragic; he could almost feel the mothers fear for her children's well being as if the fear was his own. He wondered if Mike ever got his message, if he ever got to see his children again. He felt a flash of anger, why should she have to write this message in the first place? Where was her, presumed husband when she left with their children? Before feeling a pang of guilt. Who was he to judge?

Tombs shook off his own feelings of failure to his children, he had a job to do. He convinced himself, as hard as he could, that they were safe; all of them, Mikes and _his_ _own_ children and turned away. He took a breath, re-focused and carried on down the corridor.

It wasn't a sense of patriotism that was keeping him in this shell of a once great city, he was just a realist. There was no way out. And even if he managed to get out of New York, he still had to get to Chicago, which may as well have been on the other side of the planet with roads blockaded, no, choked, with hundreds upon thousands of discarded vehicles, he'd have to walk the nearly thirteen hundred kilometres on his own, in a now hostile and unforgiving world. He damn well knew Babel was unlikely to help him. The old man was too much of a soldier to go wandering from his main objective. Plus there was no guarantee the kids were even at _Hers_ anymore. Like the mother of 'Mikes' children, they could all be long gone by now, or worse. It broke his heart to know there was probably not a damn thing he could do about being with his children during Armageddon. Life's a fucking bitch like that sometimes.

* * *

Babel, still out on the street, was watching a guy who he presumed was a sentry standing just outside the doors to the precinct. The unidentified male was constantly shifting on his feet - jumpy, the slightest noise, a dog barking making him jump and raise his weapon. What was going on inside the police station, which from where he was, was out of earshot to Babel. Whatever it was, was making the sentries head jerk back and forth like he had some sort of mental illness – perhaps it was because he was acutely aware that what he was doing was wrong. But he was a long way off, and with Babel presenting so little a target, he was positive he wouldn't be spotted.

The sentry was holding what looked like an AK47, but at this distance, not even the STOV could make the weapon out. He needed eyes on, and with no Bull's-eye drones in the area he would have to wait for Tombs to get set up.

The first thing the ex-SWAT member noticed was the light layer of snow on the floor in the front of the stairs, he took a slow, purposeful pace forward, already knowing what would happen next, but he couldn't avoid it, there was no time to find another route. The glass from the shattered skylight crunched under his boot. He scanned the landing stages above for any sign of activity, staying as still as a statue to listen out for the faintest whisper.

But he had frozen from what he had seen long before he had frozen to listen.

Above his head, swaying lightly from the cold breeze penetrating down the shaft were four bodies. The bodies of a family. Snow that wafted its way through the skylight resting on their heads, shoulders and nooses.

Weapon scanning the area, his STOV registered the dead, as well as their causes of death "ASPHYXIA" "CERVICAL FRACTURE". The smart contact lens found no heat signatures, the stairway - the parts he could see at least, were clear.

He made his way slowly up the concrete stairs, STOV and his natural senses constantly and unforgivingly scanning.

Tombs breathed a sigh as he came level with the bodies, "Fuck".

Behind their hanging corpses, sprayed on the wall in bright green paint 'Here Hangs Terrorists! God Save America!"

Tombs wasn't as shocked as he had been previously, he was numbing to it, he and Babel had seen the bodies of victims before - usually, typically Middle Eastern in appearance, from what they could tell.

Looks was all a mob needed. Fear, paranoia and anger did the rest. The American people needed someone to blame, and once again, it was the people from that God-forsaken part of the world who bore the brunt of the punishment. The truth was nobody knew who attacked the US, for all they knew it could have been Scientologists or the Amish, just as much as it could have been Al Qaeda, Al Shabaab or ISIS.

Tombs was under no illusion that, no doubt, none of the members of the family swaying lightly in the breeze across from him, had ever done anything untoward towards the country they now called home, used to call home.

There were no doubt millions of victims of hate crime since V-Day, and it wasn't likely to end until there were no ethnic minorities left on this earth.

_"We humans are despicable creatures"_ Tombs sneered,_ "Still...at least I'm not the only ghost in here"_.

He'd cut them down on his way out of this terrible place, they deserved that at least. But he couldn't risk making more noise yet. He had thirteen flights of stairs to clear and climb, and only five minutes to do it, so far he'd only managed two.

* * *

A triple crack followed by a pair of deeper bangs disturbed the relevant silence of the now rotten 'Big Apple',

The gunfire made the sentry turn and jog back inside; most likely to see what the hell was going on.

Experience told Babel that those were the sounds of an automatic weapon and a shotgun, and it definitely originated from inside Precinct 13. Who did the shooting though, he wouldn't know until he got in there. The forty three year old SBS veteran hoped it meant the fight was still going on, and that it wasn't summary executions.

He shifted on his knee, anxious to get into the fight, he couldn't let the Cops deal with this themselves, they needed backup, the previous days failure weighed heavy on his mind. He was tasked with the protection of emergency services, military personnel and the 'healthy' civilian population. Everything that didn't fall under that remit was a target.

The tails of the black and white shemagh around his neck flapped lightly in breeze gust of cold northerly wind. He made an executive decision, and moved up while the sentry was still inside, radioing Tombs to tell him of the situation and to hurry his arse up.

Tombs radioed back instantly, straining to open a stuck window, "You'll have cover momentarily" as he finally managed to jimmy open the sticky window onto the roof, swinging his leg over the window ledge. He immediately peeled the gas mask from his sweating face and gulped in the fresh air like he'd nearly drowned. The breeze was cold, refreshing after spending what felt like an eternity amongst despair and decay inside the building. He jogged carefully to the edge of the roof, swapping weapons half way, extending the bipod of his sniper rifle. He lay down and surveyed the scene before him.

Little did he realise, he too was being watched.

Babel was already a third of the way down the street when the commotion started again inside the police building, the shotgun blasting into life as well as pistol shots before a long squeeze of the trigger from an automatic weapon. He had to get the attackers out onto the street so he could let Tombs work his magic.

He rapidly unscrewed the silencer from his rifle, the German made HK416, and slid it into his rucksack. Before making his way over to the nearest car and smashed open the window of the emerald green Honda Accord.

"Babel, what the hell are you doing man?" The voice of the sniper coming through his ear piece loud and clear.

Babel grunted as he leaned inside the car, the previous occupant, according to the smell was a heavy smoker, "Causing a distraction...let me get the first fucker out the door, after that, discretion is yours confirm?"

Tombs, half a block away and thirteen floors up cracked his neck and breathed deep, "Confirmed", flexing his hands around the grips and handles, "_Killing time_".

Babel took one last steady breath to focus before the melee started and pressed the horn.

Nothing happened.

Exasperated, Babel could only manage "Motherfucking piece of shit Honda", before he noticed the Sentry was stepping back out the door, probably chastised for leaving his post, and he was looking right at the ex special forces operative.

"_Shit_."


	3. Chapter 2: Day 12 (Part II)

**V-Day +12**

**Precinct 13, South Entrance, East 20 Street, New York, New York. January 7th 2021, V-Day +12 1336Hrs.**

His original plan to draw out the attackers by using the car horn, was crumbling around him like bad masonry. The HK416 was swinging loosely behind his back so he could fit through the window of the Honda Accord unimpeded, too far out of reach to quick draw. Babel, in one fluid motion slid out of the car, lowered his stance and drew his Walther P99Q from his leg holster in a time Billy the Kid would have been proud of and aimed it squarely at the sentries' chest.

"Drop the weapon, put it down now!" Babel bellowed in a tone like that of the drill sergeant back at HMS Raleigh – the Royal Navies basic training academy.

The sentry could have been no more than sixteen, a child by any standard to be put into this situation.

His STOV registered the weapon as a threat, with a red boxed "AK47", pointing at the assault rifle.

The AK47, a selective-fire, gas-operated assault rifle, firing a 7.62mm round. Even after seven decades the model and its variants remain the most widely used and popular assault rifles in the world. It was estimated that there were between seventy five and one hundred million of these weapons found across the globe. No doubt a large proportion of that number these days being acquired by illegal methods, most likely the rifle in the arms of the sixteen year old teenager in front of him was no different. Babel had seen this weapon a thousand times before; he knew its reputation preceded it. The only thing that changed was the weapons handler.

The boy, clearly panicking, his eyes wide with fear, stopped dead in his tracks and changed his stance as if to run back inside. What the sentry did next Babel would later reflect on as either extremely stupid or incredibly brave, he would eventually decide on the former.

The teenager proceeded to do what he was told to do and raised his rifle to fend off the attackers who were, in his mind, no doubt, here to steal their hard earned quarry.

The SBS veteran was no stranger to what those in the profession, authors and movies alike called "Bullet Time", he'd experienced it at least twice in his life before, it was a real thing. The first time it occurred during a fire fight in Sierra Leone when he rounded a corner to find a woman aiming down the sights of an RPG, into his face. The second time was during a hostage rescue in Syria as he and his squad burst into the dark, blood encrusted room after they had successfully breached in with an explosive charge. He was about to experience it for a third time.

His decision on what to do next had been made for him. The second the boy raised the assault rifle, Babel minutely adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger.

Within a hundredth of a second of Babel tightening his grip slightly on the trigger mechanism, the firing pin struck the primer of the nine millimetre cartridge, igniting the charge. The flame from the primer exploded the gunpowder condensed inside the brass casing, burning rapidly in a flash of white heat. The gasses created by the burning powder pushed the bullet down the rifled barrel, while, at the same time pushing back on the slide of the German made, Walther P99Q.

The slide is heavier than the bullet, and because of this it moves much slower. As the slide is pushed back on its springs, it pulls the now expended and useless cartridge case from the chamber and is ejected out of the pistol into the cold January air in a short, graceful arc, the casing spinning the whole while like a figure skater.

At the end of the stroke, springs that were compressed during recoil now push the slide forward, stripping a fresh round from the spring loaded magazine, and sliding it into the chamber ready for the next shot.

All of this happens in under two hundredths of a second.

The bullet travelled the fifteen meters in less than that, and at this range, with his thousands of hours spent on the shooting range and more in the field, he couldn't miss. The bullet hit the teenager in the muscle of his right thigh shattering the femur behind it. The bullet, impacting on flesh, was reminiscent of a rock being thrown in a lake

Babel hoped he wouldn't hit the Femoral artery, if the bullet even nicked the arterial wall; a six foot jet of blood would drain the boy of his precious life force in minutes. He wanted to avoid killing the teen sentry if he could help it; he needed the noise more than he did the kill.

More than that he was a man of morals, he had to shoot a child in the past, younger than the one in front of him now, but he did it nonetheless, he _had_ to. That child still, on occasion came to visit him in his nightmares; he didn't want another to join him.

Babel got the noise he was hoping for; the boy toppled forward, the momentum of the bullet strike carrying his right leg backwards. Falling face first to the floor, the boys' instincts did the rest and put one of his hands out to catch himself, the other tightening its grip on the assault rifle. The weapon barked to life as he pulled the trigger, the errant rounds hitting an un-named building on the opposite side of the street, spilling chunks of concrete to the asphalt.

He screamed, wailed and cried in pain, as his body and face slammed into to the cold, unforgiving marble floor.

Babel was already retreating back as the boy called for help as best he could through a broken nose, calling for his buddies and family inside the station.

Babel had already worked out on his way down the street toward the precinct, that he could get a decent vantage point overlooking the entrance to the police station behind a looted UPS truck, it's contents, spilled as if it were its guts onto the roadway with all but the packages deemed of value stolen.

Once safely behind the relative cover the delivery truck afforded, the Division Agent placed the still smoking pistol back in its holster, leaving the holding strap which wraps around the pistol grip undone so he could re-draw the weapon at a moments notice if he needed it. He un-slung the assault rifle from his back, flicked the ACOG to the side in favour of the close quarters, reflex sight and waited.

The teenager continued to scream, a high pitched child's scream, for his mom. There was no shame in that - Babel had seen men twice the boys size, age and experienced in the ways of war doing the exact same thing.

In a wave of activity, three men and a woman burst from the front doors of Precinct 13. A fourth man, crashed to his knees in front of the stricken teen, wrapping his hands around the entry and exit wound on his leg to try and stem the blood loss, causing the boy to scream even louder.

The four who exited, now aware of which way the attacker went thanks to the hysterical pointing sentry flew onto the street and split up amongst the cars and rotting litter. They were scanning, desperate to find who had shot their lookout. Also keenly aware that the cops left inside could retaliate at a moments notice.

Babel squared his second target of the day in his sights, as a Lion would hunting Antelope, and tightened his index finger.

The Lion however was beaten to his quarry by the Cheetah.

Both Babel on the ground and Tombs on the roof of the apartments had been targeting the same person – a portly man in his mid forties, unshaven and round jawed, wearing a grubby black anorak brandishing a silver six shooter.

_Whip-crack._

The high velocity round tore through the mans skull like a freight train hitting a watermelon. The bullet entered his skull at the point where forehead met hair, the entry wound – nothing but a neat circular hole. Once the round had forced its way inside the mans head, the bullet tumbled, mashing the mans brain into grey paste before its spectacular explosion out of the base of his skull where his cranium and spine used to meet.

Brain and bone matter were thrown back against a parked squad car behind the newly deceased, followed closely by the corpse smashing the police interceptors wing-mirror.

Babel, a hair behind his Sniper partner had released a three round volley at the man, aimed at his heart, all but one of the rounds missing as the body flew back against the police car. The round that _did_ hit home, only managing to bury itself in the dead mans right forearm.

The Sniper on the roof, half a block away, inwardly chucked "Advantage Tombs".

Position revealed, the ex-Special Forces soldier had seconds to move from his hiding place, spinning, he'd go to the other side of the vehicle. Bullets and tracer followed him, peppering the UPS trucks windscreen blowing foamy chunks out of the drivers' seat. The rounds hitting the metal work, sounding like heavy hail stones falling on a thin tin roof.

Hearing only parts of the conversation through the gunfire and he sentries screams, Babel made out the words, "Up there!" and "Shoot him!", peeking around the side of the truck, his STOV picked up the weapons of two of the remaining attackers on the street were holding, "Škorpion vz. 61" and "AK47" flashed in front of him, a red line joining the text to the weapon.

From where he was standing, Babel could see the building Tombs was laying on top off, faintly registering the dark, organic lump amongst the man made straight lines. The female attacker had obviously spotted it too, working out which way the killer of her once neighbour was located. She pulled the trigger and let the Kalashnikov cycle its way through the entire magazine on automatic fire.

It was a rookie error. She'd have to be either extremely lucky, or an expert marksman to actually hit Tombs – the AK47 has never been famed for its accuracy. However, with the amount of lead coming his way though, at least one round would statistically come close to finding its mark, and a single bullet was all that was needed. That single round hit the edge of the brickwork in front of Tombs and ricocheted into the air, sending a cloud of dust and debris into the face of the sniper, a small chunk of brick grazing his left cheek.

The shock of the round impacting on his position, and the temporary blindness thanks to the brick dust made him miss the target he we was about to eliminate.

She'd never realise it, but the woman shooting the Russian made assault rifle at the ex-SWAT sniper saved the life of the third man, he who was supposed to be watching Precinct 13's doors, whose nerves had got the better of him and was making a hasty, cowardly (if somewhat smart) retreat in the opposite direction of the gunfire. Tombs, as per usual, had him dead to rights, crosshair focused on the cowards' spine, missing by metres when he flinched, shattering the rear window of a SUV further down the street.

The girls' attention was solely on Tombs. She had made her second rookie mistake and took her eye off the other threat. Her boyfriend, changing the magazine of his submachine gun after making the UPS vans drivers' compartment holeyer than Swiss cheese wasn't laying down suppressive fire for her any more. Giving the Babel the advantage.

Agent Babel turned the corner of the delivery truck; HK416 levelled and squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession before rolling back round the corner of the truck, taking cover once more.

The girl, formally an accountant in a well established law firm before V-Day, focusing on shooting at the small target half a block away, standing beside a yellow cab was exposed to Babel from the waist up. She took the first three rounds in her torso, stitching a path from her belly button up to her right breast. The second set of three rounds grouping in the nape of her neck.

She was killed instantly, as her insides were torn to fleshy ribbons, she collapsed to the floor in a heap, as if she had been deflated.

Enraged, the Boyfriend, who her parents never did approve of, whose idea it was to hit the NYPD precinct in the first place charged his woman's killer, Škorpion clutched in his extended arm, he was firing on full automatic, eight hundred and fifty rounds a minute at the corner of the UPS truck where Babel sheltered.

He wouldn't make it more than three paces.

Unbeknown to him, as the fire fight raged several Police officers and a lone FBI agent had chased out of Precinct 13 after their attackers, eager for revenge. To find a pair of teenagers in the entrance, one, bleeding profusely from a hole in his leg, tears cleaving clean trails through the grime and dirt on his cheeks. The elder of the two, trying desperately to stop the bleeding was obviously the wounded boys' brother as they both shared the same boyishly handsome looks.

The noise was deafening.

While Officer Sharpe, young, fresh out of the academy six months ago – although the six moths felt like six years, covered the brothers in the entrance with his shotgun, ordering them to "Not move or he'd blow their fuckin' heads off", in a cringe worthy cliché.

Officer Musgrave and Agent Woods rushed out onto the street, taking cover where they could in time to see the female attacker, the one who so confidently told them not ten minutes ago to give up, crumple to the floor, and see the Hispanic leader of the gang leaving cover to charge an unknown attacker on the opposite side of a UPS van. Agent Woods raised her Glock and fired, her NYPD counterpart following suit.

The FBI agents' first round went wide, striking the delivery vehicle, Woods' second shot hitting the man in the side of the throat. Officer Musgrave, an older officer, tired and gnarled unloaded his pistol at the male; all but three of the rounds missing their mark, peppering the attackers back with bullet holes.

The corpse fell against the UPS truck, head smacking into the drivers side front wheel. A pool of blood, deep red against the crisp white of the snow on the ground, slowly beginning to melt the settled powder where the lifeless body had fallen.

The Officer of the Law and the Special Agent kept their weapons raised, there was another man with a gun out there, and he couldn't be trusted.

The FBI Agent, weapon trained on the corner of the delivery van shouted loud enough for whoever was hiding there to here, "This is Special Agent Woods of the FBI...you behind the truck! Come out with hands on your head!"

**A/N: This is as far as i got as of February 2015 but never got around to posting - due to requests these have been shared with you all. If demand is high, I will consider continuing the story, but pre warned, they may take a while. Thanks For reading as always! Khaki Out**


	4. Chapter 3: Day 12 (Part III)

**V-Day +12**

**Precinct 13, South Entrance, East 20th Street, New York, New York. January 7th 2021, V-Day +12 1339Hrs.**

Babel would do as he was told. After all it wasn't as if he could just ghost away, as per normal given the circumstances. He was surrounded, he had nowhere to duck into; he didn't want to put his or anyone else's life at risk any more today.

The last thing he needed was to be shot by the itchy trigger finger of New York Law Enforcement, jumpy as a March Hare and high on adrenaline from the firefight.

He continued to re-button his pistol holster, back pressed against the truck and applied the safety on his assault rifle and let it swing at his side in full view of the officers.

"Special Agent Woods" He interlocked his fingers behind his head. "My name is Special Agent Christopher Babel of the CIA" _he lied – _it was the Divisions standard cover story, high enough agency to be well equipped, and to not be asked questions. Besides, who would believe he was actually a sleeper agent in a tip-top secret shadow bureau?

"I am heavily armed but I have put my weapons away with the safeties on. I mean you and your colleagues no harm, I'm on your side...I'm stepping out from behind the truck now...don't shoot...please" He took several paces forward and turned towards the officers, service pistols were immediately trained onto his person.

That was where he stood, in the middle of the street, surrounded by the evidence of the firefight which ended abruptly scant minutes ago, busted vehicles, litter and steaming corpses. He felt, and might as well have been naked, which he attributed to a lifetime of training to be _behind_ cover.

The FBI agent considered the man before her with a cautious and expert eye.

He stood roughly six feet tall, barrel chested and thick armed. He was wearing a tattered, backwards, old navy blue baseball cap atop short, short but messy brown hair, sporting a beard which looked course to the touch, shards of silver poking their way through the dark mass of his facial betraying his age. His eyes she wasn't sure of as they were hidden behind a set of darkened tactical sunglasses.

Around his neck, slightly obscured beneath his beard was a black and white chequered shemagh, like she'd seen those who came from the Middle East wearing around their heads and faces to protect themselves from the elements. He wore a waist length, worn light grey jacket, the chest of which was mostly obscured by an urban, Digi-camo, bullet proof vest. She also noticed the straps to a backpack which she couldn't see from this angle. Dark grey, a shade off of black combat trousers, with a pistol holster on his left thigh, the handle of his pistol facing backwards, the base of the clip showing so that he had to physically twist to his left with his right hand, she noted that as an oddity and was no doubt down to his personal preference. It was however, safely nestled in the cradle and physically connected by an elasticated cord between the cradle and grip. Dark, tattered knee pads and greyed combat boots. What really caught her eye was the assault rifle hanging to his side, strapped over his right shoulder in a style she knew as a "single point assault sling". The type of the rifle she couldn't tell, but the damn thing had more gadgets attached to it than the average car.

Fuck being a spook – this guy was military, special forces, possibly even a mercenary. His accent as well was definitely, clearly not American, British.

She spoke up, never dropping the weapon away from the sweet spot, his forehead, (despite being trained to aim for the chest, the guy was wearing body armour, better to aim for something _soft),_ "On your knees Agent, you got any ID?", she nodded to the Officer beside her to move forward and check the 'Agents' eyes for any sign of the infection.

Babel duly obliged and knelt into the bloody slush surrounding him.

"Aye, top left trouser pocket"

He did in fact, _have_ a CIA ID tag, and if anyone was to look deeper into his identification, would find a falsified report that he had been a member of the CIA, New York branch since 2015. Not that they would be able to do easily of course, what with the city wide, intermittent power cuts.

The elder Police officer approached him cautiously, his face weathered with age and years on the beat. "I'm gonna have to take your glasses off son, check you for infection", Gingerly lifting the unknown, kneeling man sunglasses before him with one blue surgically gloved hand, he shone a pocket torch into his eyes with the other, looking to check whether they were bloodshot or were weeping mucus.

Of course they weren't, the eyes staring compassionately back at the beat officer were an oak brown with clean, white edges apart from a small square of red to the right of Babels right eye. An old scar which never fully healed from his youth.

"He's clean", grumbled the veteran cop.

The group of officers almost visibly heaved a sigh of relief, as the Police officer reached down into Babel's pocket, retrieving a small, tattered and bent laminated identification card, CIA stamped across the background in thick, overpowering blue letters. The picture was of a clean shaven and suited Babel; hair slicked back, a far cry from his new, more intimidating, if somewhat destitute appearance. Other minor details like his name, identification number and office were typed along the photos edge, all seemingly above board and non-falsified in any way.

"May I get up now please Agent Woods?" He'd learnt over years of service, that simply being polite was the sometimes the quickest way to get things done, "We're on the same side here – We're here to help", Babel, purposely hinting there were more than just him.

"We? There's more than one of you?" Sharpe spoke up, the squeak in his voice giving away his youthfulness.

Still on his knees, hands interlocked behind his head, breath misting in front of his face with every word, "There - my partner, Agent Tombs is on the rooftop over my left shoulder", he shrugged, "He has been listening to our entire conversation and is currently holding a high powered sniper rifle"

Eyes and pistols shot up into Tombs' direction.

"Tombs, would you kindly make yourself known to the nice members of New York cities finest please, there's a good lad" Babel was casually checking each member of law enforcement in front of him, making sure they weren't likely to do anything stupid.

"Roger that Boss", Tombs stood up, and gave an exaggerated wave.

"Get him down here" breathed Woods, lowering her pistol, she wouldn't re-holster yet however, "You can stand Agent Babel"

"The fuck man!?" Gasped the younger police officer.

"Shut it Sharpe" grumbled Musgrave.

"If they wanted to shoot us, they'd have done so already" added Agent Woods, giving Sharpe a sideways glance.

The wounded boy, who Babel had shot, was growing ever increasingly pale. Babel, slowly got to his feet, and dusted himself down, "Agent Woods, so you're aware I believe one of your detainees is going into shock, with your permission, I want to make sure he doesn't bleed out".

"If you feel your civic duty stretches as far as to treat someone who set out this morning to kill cops, be my guest Agent, I wouldn't waste your time if I were you though" The last sentence deliberately muttered by the FBI Agent.

Babel ignored the malice in her statement as the adrenaline and aggression still in her system from the firefight, "Tombs, double time, we've got a man down"

"On my way"

He was only a kid for Christ's sake. They had to do _something._

* * *

Cutting down the family will have to wait, he'd make sure to come back and lay their bodies to rest as soon as he went to go patch up the casualty.

Still, he couldn't shake the itch that something was close by, giving the surrounding streets the one last cursory glance before he head back inside. It was probably nothing, more than likely curious residents.

* * *

Babel approached the stricken teen, brushing past the police officers and lone FBI agent with the confidence that, so long as Woods was calling the shots and Officer Musgrave kept his young partner on a short leash, nothing out of turn would happen.

The brother of the injured boy, hands limply in the air with the barrel of a shotgun in his face, snarled at the Division Agent as he approached as if he were a wild animal, "You did this, stay the FUCK away from him" spitting the words as if they would leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Babel knelt and assessed the wound at a glance, seeing that there was an entrance and an exit hole. Good, not having to remove the bullet would make this a whole lot easier.

"Either you do something useful like telling me his name and giving him your jacket, or you get out of my face, I'm going to save him" The chances of the boy actually dying from this kind of wound was relatively slim, as the shot missed the femoral artery, the fact the boy was going into shock though _was_ a concern.

* * *

Half a block away Tombs had navigated his way down the stairs, giving the swinging family a sideways glance as he passed. Past the graffiti, through the litter, over the strewn clothes and out into sunlight again.

He paused in the middle of the street, panting through his mask, tearing it from his face like a second skin to feel the cool air chill the sweat on his face. He gulped in air like a Guppy out of water. He was only inside the building for a fraction of the time it took him to get to the roof but he still felt the claw of claustrophobia at the edges of his mind, his mask and the hanging dead exacerbating the issue. And he still had to go back in yet.

Tombs took a deep breath to focus, set his mind straight and jogged down the East 20th towards Precinct 13.

* * *

Removing the blue surgical gloves from his back pocket, seeming to be standard issue now, Babel noted the boys' rapid, breathing, and the dilating pupils. The kid was going into shock no doubt about it. He wrapped his hands around the wounds and compressed, hard, causing the young boy to yelp in pain.

"Can I have some help please?" Babel asked to no-one in particular.

Sharpe huffed, lowered his shotgun and took off into the street to get a closer look at the deceased, Musgrave shuffled in his jacket and looked at Woods, who looked back, and then towards the casualty and then CIA operative, then back to Musgrave. She sighed. Agent Woods nodded her head towards the medical emergency happening on her doorstep.

Musgrave didn't need telling twice, striding over to the action, pulling his blue gloves tighter between his fingers and knelt.

"What can I do to help?" he spoke quietly, with a voice like crushed rocks in a tumble dryer.

* * *

**Precinct 13, South Entrance, East 20****th**** Street, New York, New York. January 7th 2021, V-Day +12 1541Hrs**

It took Babel, Officer Musgrave, Tombs and the brother, who Babel learnt was called Steven, and the boy Babel had shot, called Stewart, a half hour to stop the bleeding and get the boy comfortable. In that time the Division Agents had worked their way through their last set of bandages and were now down to their last syringe of morphine.

Woods had even begrudgingly agreed to let the attackers stay in one of the drunk tanks until Stewart was able to walk. All for the low price of Steven disposing of the bodies out back and cleaning up the mess he and his comrades caused in their bungled attempt to take the Police Station. He would accomplish all that under the watchful gaze of Officer Musgrave.

The place was a mess, Tombs considered the police officers some of the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet to come out with only a few superficial wounds. He guessed, with them seeming to be the last few Officers in the Precinct, at least that he had seen, they'd learnt how to deal with armed gangs as a matter of course. A trial by fire, literally, that left only the strongest, or the luckiest standing. He crept to the front of the building where he knew Babel has stayed to subtly pump the FBI Agent for local intel while Tombs and the others stretchered the boy indoors.

It'd be dark soon, and they'd have to think about moving.

He stepped over an overturned water cooler, boots crunching on the broken glass beneath, spent shell casings of various calibres littered the floor and the heavy tang of cordite hung in the air. A map of the city hung beside him. Red hatched areas showing dark zones, lawless blocks where armed gangs and the infected reigned supreme. New York had turned into the modern days Wild West.

Sharpe slept beside him, feet on a desk, arms folded over his shotgun and chin on chest. All the excitement of the gunfight must have either been too much for him or was suffering from sleep deprivation. Tombs wouldn't be surprised if it was a healthy/unhealthy mix of both; after all, he was suffering the same affliction.

Years ago, the familiarity of being within a Police station, especially one as coveted as Precinct 13, would have felt like home to him.

He didn't feel that way any more. He felt like the outsider, like he was stepping on egg shells on an Alien planet. The building felt like it was dying along with the rest of the city. It was becoming just another reinforced concrete box in a sea of reinforced concrete boxes.

He wondered if it was the lack of sleep, but it was becoming more apparent that he didn't enjoy being inside, he wasn't a smart man, but he knew what claustrophobia was, he managed to get over it once as a kid, the stress of everything however meant he could feel himself starting to suffer from what he considered to be a stupid phobia, all over again.

He made a bee line for the exit, into the foyer where perps were bought through and where people could come in off the street to make complaints and make enquiries. Out into the cooling mid-afternoon air where he saw Babel sharing a cigarette with the FBI Agent. He jogged over and nodded at Babel.

"Hey man, are we all good here?" Tombs asked casually.

Babel, smiling, turned to Tombs, "Sure, you're wanting to head out?"

"Not yet, I left something back in my nest up the street. I shouldn't be long" Tombs didn't make eye contact; he didn't want to betray the fact he was lying.

"OK, you need a hand?" Asked Babel, shifting on his feet, Agent Woods looked into the distance at the building Tombs was using as a Sniper Position.

"Nah man, I got this, the building's clear anyways, like I said, I won't be long" He jogged off, without waiting for Babel to reply.

It wasn't that Babel was a Senior Agent to his junior. It's just the natural order they fell into within a day after their meeting. It was clear to Tombs that Babel was more comfortable in this new world than he, that and during their time together he learnt the guy led men in actual warzones. Not that you didn't have to stretch the imagination too much to think of Chicago as a warzone on its worse days. The guy just had an air of authority and Tombs was happy, in the most part, to follow Babel's lead.

Babel tracked his head round to watch Tombs run off, talking into his throat mic, "Stay in radio contact", Tombs raising his arm in acknowledgment before Babel turned to Woods.

"Must need a shit" he said, winking, which curled one of corners the Agents lips into a smile.

She turned to face the Division, _CIA_ agent, "You know I know you saying you're CIA is a boat-load of crap right?" She had a dead shot look in her eye, no doubt her interrogation face Babel thought, "I don't know who you guys are or your real motives here…but thanks for your help. Heaven knows how much longer we'd have lasted if you guys had come along" Her face softened slightly, it was only at that point Babel had noticed how tired she looked, he wondered vaguely if he looked as worn. She took the last drag from the cigarette they were smoking before dropping it to the damp floor and stepping on it, extinguishing between the melted snow and the sole of her boot.

In unison they both looked back up the street to see Tombs reapplying his face mask before ducking back through the shattered glass, into the shadows of what once resembled a women's clothing store to accomplish his grizzly, secret task which would grant him a shard of inner peace.

Babel took the last drag from his cigarette, held the flavour for a couple of seconds before breathing out hevily and copied Agent woods in extinguishing the stick on the damp floor, "You're welcome".


	5. Chapter 4: Day 15 (Part I)

**V-Day +15**

**Corner of William Street and Fulton Street, Lower Manhattan, New York, New York. January 10th 2021, V-Day +15 0306Hrs.**

Babel woke with a start. His wrist was vibrating mercilessly.

Tombs' wristwatch was also. He was standing in the corner of the generously spaced corner office, SR-25 cradled in his arms like a sleeping babe, watching a small, armed group of men and women strolling away from the office block he and Babel had holed up in; their shadows caused by the flickering fire drum on the sidewalk sending their darkened silhouettes dancing across the flat white street. It was snowing gently outside; a gust of wind had however whipped it up the street, straight into the office they were occupying via a smashed window, the snowflakes settling lightly on the floor.

The chair, used to smash the strengthened glass lay in the street below, bent and broken. The body of the stockbroker, who once worked in the Division Agents current residence, had long since been taken away for cremation in the mass graves dotted throughout the city.

The stockbrokers name, 'Chad Huntingdon' they knew only as it was stencilled on the frosted glass door at the entrance to the generous corner office. The room was lavishly if somewhat garishly decorated. A thick burgundy carpet covered the floor, a large, ornate pot-plant occupied a corner; the plant long dead, a chest high brushed steel filing cabinet against the back wall, and a couple of low backed black leather chairs for any of the deceased visitors sat next to each other opposite the rooms' centrepiece - the desk. A painting was hung on the back wall, which Tombs had told Babel was a Monet (Tombs doubted it was an original); it transpired that Tombs was in a past life, an Art History Major. How he went from that to being a sniper in Chicago's SWAT team would probably make interesting bar story under the right circumstances.

Finally the centrepiece; a large mahogany desk, dominating the centre of the room. It told the story of the last hours of Mr Huntingdon. The laptop lay open in the corner of the room where Huntingdon had apparently thrown it, its screen displaying a spider web crack, several of its keys detached and scattered on the floor. An empty bottle of Glenfarclas 1955 Scotch lay on its side at one of the corners, and front and centre was a silver framed photo of a blonde haired woman, beautiful in every sense of the word, smiling for the camera. The photo was face down when the pair first found the room. The Agents could only guess her fate. The highly sheened surface was tarnished, scuffed where the laptop was beaten against the hardened surface. The final chapter being where Mr Huntingdon had used a sharp, unidentified object to scratch a single word into the surface: "Sorry".

The desk now carried the weight of tombs sub-machine gun, as well as his rucksack; the top open with an MRE half-heartedly ripped open and half eaten, propped against the opening. Tombs wasn't particularly hungry, he just needed some sort of nutrients in his body to keep it going. Since V-Day, he had lost what he guessed to be about ten pounds in weight.

Both he and Babel had taken stock of supplies when they were settled and were comfortable that no-one was lurking in the shadows. He hadn't realised they were so short on the necessities: limited ammo for every weapon – the SR-25 having the least with a scanty 5 rounds remaining. Three MRE's between them and about a litre of water to share not to mention there was only a quarter of toilet roll left. Was there no God?

They would definitely need to check in at a re-supply checkpoint in the next couple of days. They could always scavenge in the meantime.

Tombs stood just over five feet eight inches, with a runner's physique, sinewy to Babel's American football/Rugby players' body type. What he lacked in size he made up for in speed however, that and he could still pack a mean punch. His face was round, if gaunt after time in the field without three square meals a day. His nose was flattened; his eyes were warm and telling and he was in possession of a large half-moon, toothy grin, when he had things to smile about. Admittedly, those times were few and far between these days. He was dressed in a (what once was) an off-white hooded jacket, now more grey with dust and dirt, dark green combat khakis and a grey beany hat, with standard tactical boots and pads like Babel's to protect his joints.

As Babel stirred from his sleepy haze to the constant buzz of his wrist, the dream he was having was a bare whisper of the reality it was in his head only ten seconds ago wafting away in the cold winters breeze. He sat up, his sleeping bag slipping down to his waist and propping himself on his bag. Tombs looked at Babel and tapped his ear piece twice to cancel the buzzing wristwatches; this was the first time they had been contacted since he was told to rendezvous with Babel twelve days ago. He moved away from the open window in Babels' general direction, ensuring he could hear every word. The voice of a woman was on the other end, curt and crisp and had a slight, if noticeable, Texan accent.

"Delta Two Echo, this is Glass Castle, How Copy?" said the unidentified agent on the radio, the start and end punctuated with a short, sharp hiss of static.

Before Tombs replied he turned to Babel, "Glass Castle, that's The Patriot right?"

Babel, yawning, pressing a hand to his ear to block out any background noise raised his thumb in agreement.

* * *

The Patriot was a Super Antonio Class Amphibious Transport Ship, SACATS for short. Built in secret by the government alongside three sister ships; The Eagle, The Freedom and The Brave on a barren patch of Alaskan coastline, away from prying eyes. The construction yard and ships cost the unaware US taxpayer billions of dollars.

They differed from the typical Antonio Class ships in terms of size, displacing twenty eight thousand tonnes, fully loaded and just shy of eight hundred feet in length. They were also built of a radiation absorbent material making them near stealth with advanced optics and listening devices, painted a dark, almost black grey with little to no identification markings.

Before V-Day their primary goal was to spy on the untrustworthy, two watching Russian naval activity, one in the Mediterranean and the last off the coast of North Korea. However once The Division became activated, all previous orders were to be considered discarded and the massive ships turned for home, they would patrol up and down the coasts to assist in Division Agents 'on the ground'.

Fifteen days previous, the Patriot was stationed in the Mediterranean, deciphering code and messages for CENTCOM, spying on Middle Eastern governments and militaries from drones flying at thousands of feet above the earth. Delivering International Special Operators via V-22 Osprey into places the US weren't sanctioned to be. Once the order came in, she had travelled over six thousand miles, back to the east coast and was currently on station just over the horizon from the shores of Long Island – for the time being, purposely staying out of the way of the carrier strike group on task and on station, providing aid to the region.

* * *

"Go for Delta Two Echo" replied Tombs, his voice steady despite his heart racing.

"Delta Two Echo, RTB for debrief and resupply, prepare for coordinates for LZ. How copy?"

That got Babel's attention. He presumed they were going to be receiving new orders. Things must be even worse than he realised. Both he and Tombs simultaneously opened their STOV's with a cheek twitch and waited for a waypoint to be uploaded.

"Glass Castle this is Delta Two Echo, ready for uplink, over" replied Tombs, no sooner had he spat out the words than a downward facing green arrow with a green line showing suggested route to their pickup zone. They were close; turns out they were heading to what once was a heliport for aerial tours of the Big Apple – New York Helicopter Inc. on River Pier 6E.

Tombs returned, "Glass Castle this is Delta Two Echo, coordinates received, over"

The curt, Texan voice on the other end of the radio replied instantly, "Delta Two Echo, this is Glass Castle, ETA for Big Bird is 0600 hours, how copy?" Tombs liked the sound of the operators voice, it was comforting, reassuring. After making fewer than few friends in the field, the pair of Division Agents would later agree her voice was almost Angelic.

"Glass Castle, this is Delta Two Echo, message received, we'll be there, over" Tombs stretched out his arm towards Babel, while staring out the window in the direction the group he was watching a couple of minutes age, now completely disappeared into the darkness and clenched his fist. Babel returning the fist bump with a light tap. Several seconds of radio silence was finally broken by the Radio Operator.

"Make sure you are. Glass Castle, Out"

For the first time in weeks, Tombs bared his big toothy grin.

**200m North of 6 E River Piers, New York, New York. January 10th 2021, V-Day +15 0526Hrs.**

A pair of F-35C's the colour of thunderclouds; afterburners lit in a cone of orange fire tore down the east river and into upper bay two hundred metres above the surface of the water. The noise sounding like tearing card reverberating off their chests as the two single seat STOL aircraft became ever decreasing in size until they were completely out of sight – No doubt heading back to home base aboard an aircraft carrier unseen, somewhere south of Manhattan.

* * *

They had a problem.

The area was occupied.

Tombs and Babel were crouched along the length of a black SUV, the two Division agents facing in opposite directions, scanning for threats. They had spotted the fires as they turned onto the FDR. One or two people were milling about even at this time in the morning; they seemingly paid the division agents (if they saw them) no mind. What with so many armed people roaming the streets these days it was best to keep yourself to yourself and scurry off in the opposite direction to keep out of harms way.

There appeared to be an impromptu camp in the space of the Vietnam War Memorial directly opposite the pier, flanked by a pair of fifty plus story tall buildings. The camp was not marked as an aid or military centre of any kind, so it was impossible to tell if they were friendly. Knowing their luck however, the camp was almost definitely not a place they would want to be.

Not only that but the pier also held a two story building, no doubt the HQ of the helicopter business. The windows on the FDR side that they could see were boarded up with thick plywood. A massive clock loomed large on the front of the building. All evidence suggested that the office was empty and unless proven otherwise, would provide great cover from the camp opposite for them and the chopper, should the need of cover arise.

Babel, covering their rear spoke first, "I assume there's too many windows to scan for threats?"

"Yup" replied Tombs, looking desperately for signs of snipers or spotters in the windows on his right, the gloomy morning light not making his job any easier.

"And, no way of knowing if those in that camp are friendly?" asked Babel.

"Nope" replied Tombs. His STOV wasn't even able to pick anything up in the dark. What he _had_ seen however through the scope of his rifle, was a pair of sentries or rather the silhouettes of a pair of sentries to the entrance of the memorial. They appeared to be armed. Of course.

Babel sighed, "I fucking love my job" and peered at his watch, "Thirty mikes until big bird, we'll just take our time getting to the pier, low and slow. On me". Babel pivoted ninety degrees and moved between a pair of parked cars towards the water front. Tombs followed.

* * *

It had taken the pair a long and painful twenty two minutes to be within spitting distance of the pier frontage. Twenty two minutes of stop and go along car flanks as the pair kept the corner of their eyes fixed on the pair of guards, but scanning the surrounding buildings at the same time; their STOVs registered that the pair clutched M16s. These guys were packing some serious hardware; they appeared to be decked out in not only assault rifles but a vest of Kevlar each too. The dozen or so broken windows on the buildings either side of the camp site also had the pair worried, who knew what the dark depths of the black voids hid.

Fortunately for the Division duo the gate appeared to be ajar enough for them to slip right through unimpeded. Tombs elected to go first, it would be a dash to get through and take cover behind a white van inside the gate, parked at a forty five degree angle, the helicopter tours logo stencilled on the side.

"Ready?" asked Babel crouched back enough from the hood of the car he was kneeling behind to quickly raise his HK416 and use the vehicle as a stabilising platform for when the time came.

Tombs shifted his weight, "Ready to move" He had his MP5/SD3 primed.

"Go" Whispered the SBS veteran, raising his rifle smoothly, resting its weight on the hood of the red Camaro without making a sound, the business end aimed squarely at the closest guard, currently lighting the cigarette in the other guards mouth.

Tombs kept low and moved quickly, in a heartbeat he was through the gate and on the other side of the white van and turning to provide cover for Babels' advance.

They had a problem.

Unbeknown to the pair the invisible side of the white vans sliding door was open. And its occupants weren't happy to meet an agent of the Division for the first time. A pair of stray dogs had decided to call the compartment their love nest and the rapid, unannounced arrival of Tombs startled the small, scruffy pair of mutts who barked, loud, proud and incessantly at the intruder in their midst.

"Oh, shit!" startled Tombs who quickly slammed the sliding door shut, trapping the dogs before they could get the chance to attack him. The pair immediately jumped at the window, front legs pawing at the glass, their wet noses leaving streaks of wet with each snarled bark.

The guards raised their weapons almost instantly at the ruckus to their momentarily unguarded twelve o'clock dropping their cigarettes in the process out of surprise. Fortunately for Tombs, their focus wasn't on their eleven o'clock.

"We got some-fin" yelled the one Babel was tracking back into the camp. The pair slowly made their way down the steps towards Tombs' location.

"No, no, no, no, no", gritted Babel.


End file.
